


Phoria

by Bluandorange, ravenously



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe- Warm Bodies AU, Don't need to have read/seen Warm Bodies to get the jist... Just follow along folks., Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Gore, Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes are two different people, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2721017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluandorange/pseuds/Bluandorange, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenously/pseuds/ravenously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pho·ri·a (fôr-) n. is a latent deviation, or misalignment, of the eyes that is only apparent some of the time. A phoria appears when fixation on a single object is broken and the eyes are no longer looking at the same object.</p>
<p>Winter has a problem. The problem being, that he ate Bucky Barnes' brain and is now being tasked to keep his boyfriend safe. Steve Rogers, understandably, is a little worried about the dead corpse that looks eerily like Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phoria

**Author's Note:**

> This is an RP between Ravenously and Bluandorange. It's slightly edited for format, but other than that, it's lifted entirely from the gmail logs that we wrote. Ravenously plays Winter/Bucky, and Blu plays Steve.

 

Steve is running as fast as he can. It’s not very fast. Probably won’t be fast enough. Fuck, he doesn't even know where he's _going_ , just that he can't stop. He stops, he dies, and he's not ready for that yet.

His chest is on fire, lungs struggling even with the steroids they've been provided, the muscles in his legs worn thin and struggling to snap. Every time he thinks he's gained some distance, he looks back to find a new corpse tailing him, come out of the woodwork to join the party, to snap at his heels. He's running down an open street, probably drawing them from the alleys as he passes.

A part of him finds their interest ridiculous. So many hunters gunning for the same thin and sickly prey. He's not gonna feed all of them--he probably won't even feed _one_ of them, why were they all so _insistent_.

Steve's about to the next intersection and can see it’s choked with cars. They create a natural barrier, a natural obstacle course, and he may not be fast, but he's damn sure he's more nimble than the corpses after his hide.

He puts on a burst of speed and throws himself onto the hood of the first vehicle of the blockade, scrambling up it and leaping off the side to the roof of the nearest car beside it. He pushes himself to go a few more cars in, boots slipping on the dust covered hoods, hunched over to balance on hands and knees. Finally, he feels like he can't keep going if he doesn't _stop_ , so he stops, kneeling on the top of a minivan.

 

\---

 

There's a twitch deep inside him when the moans and groans of the other Dead pull him from his near-catatonic state and cause him to lurch from the trash-ridden alley-way and into the land of the... Well, maybe that saying doesn't _quite_ apply to him. But it's an instinctive urge, a nudge, a following, the kind that makes him think _this is why they call our groups hives._ It's all groupthink and hiveminds, one urge travelling like a forest fire to the others.

And he's the remains of a forest fire, the burnt out, ashen-gray husk that resemble life but lacks that _spark_ , that vibrancy that dances in greens and reds and oranges. Forever reaching upwards in jagged yearning limbs, reaching for _something_ , but frozen in place under a sky more expansive than the human race.

But even melodramatic thoughts such as those are muted in the thrill of the _hunt_ , in the expectation of food and one of those sought-after _sparks_ , however short lived it may be. Time is fluid and strange and passes in quick bursts and slow streams whenever his mind and instincts merge like this, and it could be seconds or minutes later that he finds himself in the midst of a small gathering, all lumbering and moving towards-

There.

A distant spark, brilliant and strong and powerful, leaning on the cars in the throng of a traffic jam, one forever stuck in the commute to work.

But oh. Oh, is it brilliant. He knows he's salivating, knows it's a messy disgusting mess that's echoed on the faces of his brethren. Knows he's practically moaning in the only blissful fucked-out way zombies can manage now. Whoever this is- It doesn't matter, not really; it's not the person but the Life that matters- their brain will be intense, their neurons and spinal tissue will issue zings and waves of near-happiness. Grey matter and white matter and the spinal cord in a grisly feast fit not for the kings of old but the starving masses.

He wants it. And the closer he gets, the stronger the scent of his life is, so strong he almost doesn't see the _figure_ , but the Life, like some demented heat-signature device. Red and red and red, the color of need and want.

And then he gets to the first car and there's another twitch. He's trying to clamber over or around cars, whatever it is that his sluggish body wants, but it makes him stop. Other zombies crash into him, moving around to get to the Life, growling and snapping their teeth at him in passing for making more obstacles to the Prey, but he's stuck frozen for a moment, head cocking in a caricature of humanity.

It's not the twitch of instincts, the ones that cause his decaying brainmatter to spasm into more movement, the ones that move his muscles but not his mind. No. This is something deep inside of him, in some hollowed out remain of his own long-gone Life, and it's telling him to _stop and listen._ Not in those words, but in those wordless commands.

(Something within the remains of his old self clambers to that, clambers to orders like a babe to a nipple.)

The voice, in faded but tense explanations tell him that the Lifeforce on that car is _not food, it's not for your sick fucking appetite, save him and keep him from turning into one of you fucking corpses._

He knows for a fact it's not himself saying this because swearing is one mental thing he'd never mastered. But it's also- Give up such decadent pickings? That's-

_Just listen to reason for once in your deadened life._

His face twitches, his body shudders and he looks up at the figure and knows, knows that he is not to eat him. He is to protect and save and that in this instance, his brethren are not his allies, his aid in the hunt for meat and Life. They are just more obstacles, and he pushes through them as fast as he can, trying to get closer and closer to the man, to this goal and mission that _something_ has put into his mind.

 

\---

 

Panting, Steve looks back over his shoulder and feels a cold wash of relief cooling his overworked muscles. The fuckers can't climb for shit. He should keep going, keep this distance or add to it, but when he tries to rise from his crouch, he starts to tremble. His knees are weak.

Steve swears and looks back to the horde. There's one who's broken out of the throng and seems hellbent on getting to him first. He's a big fucker--dark dirty long hair bouncing limply around his gore-grizzled face as he pushes himself around the cars, toward Steve.

If he doesn't get moving he's gonna be that dead bastards lunch.

Steve pushes up, falls, pushes up again and manages to work himself off the side of the van and onto the hood of the sports car below it. The van blocks him from his pursuers, but not being able to see them scares the piss out of him. He tries to funnel that fear into movement and begins an uncoordinated scramble forward.

 

\---

 

His mind is like the colorblind see the world, and that twitching presence deep within him is telling him that this man is his palette of paint, his canvas to spread Rembrandt across. It's a want deeper than hunger even, or maybe it's just stronger, enough to trigger mechanisms in his long-dead brain, and it wrenches a whine from his throat as he continues forward, trying to catch _up_.

It's strange how in the past few minutes, his mind has changed course from _meal, dinner, preypreyprey_ , to the opposite, pushing the other Dead out of his way, even cracking one's skull against the window of a car when he got too close, too far ahead for his liking. He doesn't need to speak, hardly manages a word a week, and yet the rotted, slow-leaking grey brain matter leaking from the zombie below evidently deserves a snarl and a " _Mine"_ so bestial it would otherwise intrigue him as something odd.

Or maybe not. Even his thoughts have been sluggish lately.

He's too clumsy for climbing, too uncoordinated to even walk like a normal person ( _you walk like old Miss Cathery when she broke her fuckin' hip, c'mon, Steve's waiting...)_ but he's still more focused even, than the hungry masses, than his hoarde and manages to be be faster than them. He sniffs and smells and gropes around like the blind in the dark, and the smell of Life makes him gnash his teeth, makes his fingers twitch and his needless breath quicken because he _needs_ it, wants it, wants to tear and destroy and _take,_ but the _thing_ inside him does not like that.

_Don't you fuckin' dare, you rotten fuckin' corpse. Off-limits. Get him to safety. Think about my glorious fuckin' brain matter if you need to hold yourself off. Steve is not. For. You._

He can't help but listen to these compulsions deep within him, to this bubble of words and force and Will. It's slow going but he gets around the bulky van, follows his nose to the smell of Life and spots Him on a smaller car, breathing deep but moving forward, and he stops for a moment, watches.

Why him. Why save him. It's the unanswered question, but he doesn't have the answers right now. And sometimes gut instinct- or talking guts, whatever it may be- are more powerful than answers, if the quick whip around himself to tear at another approaching zombie is any indication. It clears the way for Steve- Steve?- really. There's no more zombies for at least 20 yards; well, except him, and he continues to encroach, quick as he can, trying to loosen his tongue and stop _salivating_. It's embarrassing really. Well, he wouldn't think so, but the voice inside of him is yelling at him that _that is not the reason anyone should ever be droolin' for Stevie, y'bastard. Try cleaning up a bit classy, eh? Maybe then he won't kill you._

 

_\---_

 

The sea of cars seems to stretch on for forever and fuck if climbin up and down them isn't starting to seem like more work than it's worth. Steve's knees and ankles ache from taking each impact and he's slowing down, weary and feeble and he hates this little body he's trapped in. Hates it so much for being less than useless more often than not. It couldn't even dissuade the undead from swarming on him. Good for literally nothing.

He decides to drop down to the street and squeeze his way forward. Slides down a roof onto a hood and starts stepping over bumpers and pressing through the meager gaps. He can hear that metal head looking mother fucker on his heels and makes the mistake of looking back just as he puts his weight down on a rusted fender. The fender lurches as it snaps loose from one side and Steve stumbles backward, slots his skinny ankle between the bumpers of the two cars behind him and keeps falling, gravity pulling his weight one way while his ankles lodged in the other damn direction.

There's searing pain as it twists and Steve bites back a scream. He's landed half on the hood of something and is in just enough pain to forget the mortal danger he's in, just enough pain to be angry at himself and God than afraid of what's coming at him from behind.

 

_\---_

 

_God fuckin' damnit, one sight'a and he's down. What good are you unless you're helpin' him?_

His face twitches at the intruding voice again, even as all of his outside perception has narrowed to the tiny, broken body in front of him. He wants it. He's salivating and gnashing his teeth again, he knows, but the voice is yelling at him about being rude and how it's _not allowed._

He listens, twists his head slowly and feels a jolt of... Panic?... at the encroaching Dead, knows that Steve will be Dead or dead himself in a few minutes if he doesn't... Doesn't start helping him. He wipes sloppily at his face at the voice's insistence, makes it to the back of the car and looks down at the man he's been... Charged with... and gives a confused grunt, consults the voice inside him for what to do next.

There's not much of anything in him, but the voice is all around.

_You're a damn idiot, ain't ya. He's twisted something at the least, help him up, you rotting Fleshey. Simple. Use your rotting brain._

An order's an order, so he lumbers closer, ignores the pull in his gut that screams for him to _tear_ to _devour_ and do what instincts tell him, instead listens to the voice and just. Well, it's a difficult position to be in, so he just clumsily lifts the small body- it doesn't weight too much and if he sets his shoulders back, it seems there's some workable muscle in there- trying to get his ankles _out_. They obviously catch on the bumper a few times, if the fresh _blood_ hitting the air is any indication, but. He's pretty sure he's managed.

 

\---

 

Steve comes back to reality two seconds before hands take him and start pulling. He shouts, starts trying to wrench himself free, adrenaline trying to spike but damn well tapped out at this point. He feels rubbed raw inside from pushing himself this hard. He feels overheated with the panic.

Why did he think he could do this? Why is he fighting, if there's no goddamn point?

He doesn't stop fighting, maybe he just doesn't know how to lay down and die even when that's clearly the only future left for him, but on he goes like he still has something worth living for. It doesn't do much of anything, but no bite comes. He's never slammed sideways onto the windshield, never pitted against something harder than his skull and cracked open like an egg. He's just lifted, clumsily, and pulled this way and that and Steve realizes whoever's behind him is trying to get him _free_.

They smell like a corpse but--there's no way a corpse would be _helping_ him--

He starts to look back but is momentarily distracted by the skin on the right side of his ankle being dragged across the side in just the right way to _tear_ , but then he's free, both legs under him again, and he tries to pull forward and out of their grip. When he looks over his shoulder, its the dead man with the blood-caked chin and long hair that he sees. Unnatural steel-grey eyes. Fear locks up his joints for a moment as his breath stalls halfway down his throat.

He doesn't know why he isn't dead. He doesn't know why this monster hasn't killed him.

 

\---

 

Okay, so Steve is free. That's step one. But he looks -nearly- dead on his feet. That is not good. He's supposed to save him, but he's not sure that he's gonna be walking faster than the lumbering gait of the Dead. Well, they've still got 15 yards on the others, so he grunts slightly, works up the diction to push out "Move," and clasps a clumsy hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to _gogo_.

_Great. Kid's gone statue in fear of your ugly mug. Way to go, pal._

His face twitches again at the insults, but he keeps at task, huffing out "Go... Steve..." trying to spur him into motion because Steve will be Dead in minutes if he doesn't start moving. His Life force will bleed out on the pavement and he'll probably give into instinct if that happens, he will, because it's already hard with his bleeding ankle tickling his nostrils, even with the commands not to.

 

\---

 

He's not sure what to think anymore.

A zombie knows his fucking name. A zombie is telling him to move is--Christ, trying to _save_ him?

Steve staggers forward, pauses just--just because _this deserves pause_ , then starts climbing on roofs again. His ankle hurts something _awful_ , but he's walked on a twisted ankle before and does it now with only minor limping. He gets two cars away before his curiosity is just too fucking strong, and he has to get another look at that corpse.

Tall man, dark hair--brown? Hair? _Just_ about the same length--

No, its fucking crazy. Its impossible, its way more likely that this guy is only, like, half-turned or something. He doesn't _look_ it but--

The undead do not fucking _talk_ and they don't call people by their first fucking name.

Steve isn't sure what he wants more; to keep running with nowhere to go, or spend his last few minutes figuring out what the fuck this _is._

 

\---

 

He doesn't have the fine motor skills to climb up on the car with Steve like he wants, can only continue along his side from the street. But Steve keeps _stopping_ and that's seriously going to kill his chances to live. And he just can't allow that. " _Go._ " He hisses, and it actually sounds a little convincing, it isn't just the unsure murmuring of language gone dead. Maybe it's because that thing inside him is hissing _gogogo you fuckin' idiot, don't look at the corpse just go_ , but the word came easier than usual.

This is all new and he's just going along for the ride. It may be his body, but the consciousness has effectively used it for their own good and- He doesn't know what to think. He's just gonna work with it because- Because Steve is important.

 

\---

 

Steve moves, staying just ahead of his new companion. "Go _where?"_ he asks. He doesn't know this part of the city. He doesn't know what they'll do if the sea of cars ever ends. Maybe if they make it to the next big intersection, he can try working his way north towards the part of the city he knows, the part that leads to the settlement, but that's intersection's easily six more blocks away.

That's what he'll have to do, though. He's been running blind since the supply trip went FUBAR, but if he can get a barring of where he is on the grid, maybe he'll have a shot in hell of getting home.

Steve's face hardens as the goal clicks into place. His movements become more sure, he starts limping less, he's got _purpose_.

Yeah, look, he knows he directed that question at you, guy, but he's figured shit out on his own now. Good luck keeping up.

 

\---

 

Well, he's moving and doesn't seem as hurt so mayb-

_Don't you fuckin' dare, corpse. This is Steve we're talking about. He puts on a nice Blue Steel and pretends he's okay. Follow him._

There's less danger now, so it's a bit easier to think and the first thing that pops into his head is _I ate Steve's friend._ He remembers, vaguely now. About a week back. It was a gory, gruesome kill, the prey- man- wouldn't just stay _down_ , kept coming back up and he'd had to practically bludgeon him to keep him still long enough to get at his inner meats, at the nervous system.

But oh. Oh was it a treat, a treat that lasted hours instead of minutes. Steve was the guy's friend. Funny how that happens.

He follows at a faster pace, on the street, keeping an eye out for any quicker-moving Dead. One or two comes close enough, a lull in the traffic jam to create a wide enough space for them, and he makes quick work of them, dropping them to keep Steve's passage clear, keep him safe safe safe. That's all that matters right now. He can't think about how he hasn't used such high brain power and decision making in months or years (Time, oh time what are you), can only concentrate on the small blond head that really has no right to manage to stay so alive, so painfully, consciously alive.

 

\---

 

Steve can see the traffic lights set up around the intersection he's gunning for, another five blocks down. Four blocks. Three.

He's slowing, aching and winded, one hand pressed to his sternum like that'll _do_ anything to ease the searing pain behind his ribcage. He stops just long enough to fumble his inhaler out of his pocket and fit it between his teeth, then he's off again. One puff, one deep breath in, three blocks.

Two blocks.

One block, and the sea has become a puddle. Its not like before; this isn't a momentary lull, the sea is _drying up_ and soon there'll be nothing between him and the rest of the rotted world. Steve drops off the hood of a Honda and staggers on the even ground. One more block to travel, back in the open, only a peppering of cars to slow down anything wanting to eat him, that smattering of cars thinning the closer he gets to his goal. He can do this.

 

\---

 

He keeps up a steady pace and even manages not to drool and groan anymore. That's practically civilized for him now. He doesn't get a mental pat on the back for that, though, just a steady litany of _follow him follow him follow him._ Maybe- Maybe he owes it to the consciousness. After all, he ate the man, he kind of owes him a bit of repentance. It's just a bonus that this is the first thing he's _felt_ in months. He's been drying up, slowing down. Letting the deadened world spread its roots through his energy, sucking him dry and leaving him a real, true dead corpse.

Not anymore. He feels rejuvenated, as much as a dry-skinned zombie in a putrid green coat can, and Steve is only about ten feet in front of him. He keeps up his pace, flutters his slow-to-respond eyelids at the scent, that glorious _fucking (_ Looks like he's picking things up from his mental friend) scent.

_If he asks, tell'im your name is Bucky._

_It's... Not?_

_Well, fuckin' pretend. It's like theater only this is real life and if you don't perform well and get a standing ovation Steve's gonna blast your, and by extension my, head off. You ain't got a name, anyways. So take the one I'm giving you._

It's not true. He'd referred to himself as Winter several times, whenever he'd needed to, and it had done it's job. It's lost his luster lately, but after one particularly cold, wet night (not that he felt it) after a gruesome hunt, he'd decided his cold limbs and colder gaze belonged in the icy landscapes of a permanent winter, that his grey unfeeling lips and frozen heart were the universe's funny joke at an attempt at personified seasons.

But he looks at Steve and promises the voice he'll do as it says if he's invited to, if the blond, blond man wants anything to do with something so unnaturally still.

Looks like he found his summer.

 

\---

 

21st and Park.

He's at 21st and Park.

The relief he feels at knowing that is strange, but welcome. He knows landmarks on 21st. If he turns right, he'll bound to run into 'em eventually.

The hope bubbling up inside his chest feels wonderful while it lasts, but Steve's never been lucky, and today is certainly no exception. There's walkers _all over_ 21st going north. At seeing them, Steve staggers to an abrupt stop. If he's not mistaken, there may be _more_ zombies going _that_ way than there are at his back.

If he goes that way, he's fucked. If he stays out here, he's _fucked_.

Steve has to decide fast, so he looks around, searching for options. There's a broken door leading up a flight of stairs into a second floor business to his immediate left. It's the indoor option he's nearest to, with the least amount of resistance.

All Steve has is an empty, useless gun and maybe three seconds before the zombies on 21st get wise and come after him.

He shoots off for the door, pausing only to kick a piece of wood free and hoist it as a makeshift weapon as he hobbles up the stairs as fast as his twisted, bleeding ankle can take him.

If there's zombies up here, he's fucked. If there's not, but there's also no way to blockade him in or no way to access the roof, he's also fucked.

Fine. Steve's fucked. He'll deal. He has to, because he just doesn't know how to lay down and die. Not that he has anything left to live for.

 

_\---_

_See, maybe if you were a little louder, he woulda, I dunno, included you._

He growls out loud at the voice, momentarily annoyed by _Bucky's_ constant whining to him. He's trying, he really is, but he's slow and that's just biology. He's not at fault here. The Dead on 21st all start to congeal and walk together, forming those tight crowds and Winter can feel it in his bones, the compulsion to join, to _hunt_ , to be amongst the others. That immediate need to swarm and be together and he takes a few steps towards them, instincts pooling in his head once more but-

_You are seriously an idiot. Get the fuck upstairs and help. Y'can play Dead Cult later._

Winter twitches again, glancing at the small hoarde one more time before stepping away from them, going inside the business and trying to close the ramshackle remains of the door, looking up at the stairs and almost physically sighing because- That's gonna take a while.

_It doesn't matter just go. Keep Steve Safe. Keep him safe._

He blinks slowly and begins to make his way up, going as fast as he can and murmuring the word "safe" to himself every few steps. Like a mantra. Perhaps the only mantra that matters in this dying age anymore. Safety and life.

Steve's still slower than he should be, probably can't breathe well at the moment, especially with all this dust and filth being moved around by disruption, so he's not too far behind him, steps creaking on the stairs.

\---

 

The higher Steve goes, the dustier it gets, making his eyes burn along with his throat. He nearly jumps out of his skin when something makes it past the door at the bottom of the stairs, but momentum is momentum and soon he's at the landing and--

There's only one corpse following him, and its the one what knows his name. Steve doesn't know why that's a relief, past the obvious that he's lonely and afraid and could use any help he could get. A part of him thinks they'll be safe _together_ , like its a person heading up those steps and not another member of the undead.

But maybe he is a person. Steve doesn't fucking know. Steve doesn't have time to stand around and wonder, the landing is one long hallway and he has to get one of those fucking doors open. That turns out to be easier than expected, and the room beyond is some kind of office, its furniture ideal for making an impromptu barricade.

Steve could go in and start right now, but...

"C'mon," he says, hissing to the corpse trying to shamble toward him.

He can't believe he's doing this, but he can't deny that there's _life_ somewhere in that husk and life is worth protecting. He'd be a fucking asshole if he left him outside, where the other zombies could brain him.

"C'mon! Jesus, they're almost _here_."

\---

 

He almost pauses in his steps because someone talking TO him? What are these strange new developments where he's regarded nit as something to kill, but something to stand next to?

The voice- Bucky- is yelling again, though, , so he picks up the pace, takes the stairs as fast as he can until he's standing with Steve,  next to his scents and smells again and he wants to lean forward and-

Winter twitches,  leaning away and stepping into the room, scanning dull eyes around to make sure he can't sense any of his kin that would make some sort of surprise. The room's clean,  though.

\---

 

Steve's got a hand over his mouth and nose when the zombie's finally cleared the stairs. There's a split second where he thinks the guy's gonna go for him-- _really_ go for him--and he tenses, tightening his grip on his make-shift weapon, reading himself for a swing, but then the guy gives a jerk and seems to switch gears. He moves passed Steve into the room and Steve closes the door.

"Help--" Cough. "Help me with this," he says, moving behind a long desk. It's the sturdiest thing in the room  and bracing it against the door will buy them the most time. He doesn't wait for his companion to start helping him, he just _goes_ , throwing his weight against one side of the desk, getting the legs to scrape a few inches forward in the process.

\---

 

He's slow to respond, as ever. It always takes a bit for the outside world to slither through his diseased brain, to make a _point_ and make him act. It's never awkward around his kin, considering they're the same way, that there's always a level of synapse delay.

_Oh god. Oh god I chose an idiot to keep Stevie alive._

Winter doesn't explain that he didn't exactly _choose_ that, that it was more Winter's jaws and hunger that chose this arrangement, but he does get Steve's words floating through and clicking, so he moves to help, giving a breathy grunt of acknowledgment, eyes drifting over the room momentarily before he's pushing all his weight against the other side of the desk. This, this is what he can do. No fine motor skills needed, no requirement for higher thinking that breaches the chasm of his actions, just blunt pushing.

He was fit when he was alive. Not that he can do everything his muscles would have Before, but it's helpful. He's bulky and muscular and with his body pushed into the desk, he's able to help Steve move it across the floor, doing more of the work than Steve.

Steve guides and perfects and Winter generates.

\---

Its hard to hear anything over the desk dragging across the floor, so Steve has no damn idea how much time they have before the zombies get to the door. How much longer they have to build up their defenses. They have to make the best of the time they have.

They're about two good shoves away from getting the desk in place when Steve decides he can't waste anymore time. "Don't stop," he says as he breaks away, looking for the next thing to add to the pile.. "Not--not until y'can't push it anymore." By the time he's picked up a chair and brought it back over, the desk is as flush against the door as it's gonna get. He throws the chair on top, starts for another one.

"Grab whatever, put it in front of the door!"

\---

 

This is an interesting change in experience.  Normally,  he's on the opposite side of this, the one trying to get through barricades and blocks, not building them up. He's not sure he's been so alone in... Well, forever. Even with Steve and the other presence,  it's way less than he's used to.

He scans the room as fast as he can, flexing fingers to muster up the dexterity to grab chairs and boxes ans really whatever he can to pile on the desk,  near Steve's other things.

It's lovely. Steve can speak like it's the easiest thing in the world, and his vowels and consonants are commands, orders for Winter's mind.  It's bliss and even without Bucky in his head, he thinks he might follow him.

 

\---

They get maybe a fourth of the room's furniture in place when the groans starts being close enough to hear. For Steve to hear, more specifically, which means they're almost out of time. Steve tries not to slow, tries to keep pushing his exhausted body right to the brink, cuz the more shit he puts between him and then, the longer he has to live.

The Dead are rattling the door when he runs out of lightweight shit to haul around. Panic sweeps over him as he realizes he's too weak to do much more. He's suddenly struck with the futility of it all; he's no real idea how long the blockade they've managed to throw together will last, if it'll _do_ anything at all. Steve backs away from the door, eyes fixed on it as it rattles behind all the chairs and desk and _bullshit_. Its the moment of truth, and he's terrified. How fucked are they?

The pounding gets louder, more insistent. The groaning beyond the door starts rising in pitch.

\---

Winter stutters backwards to the middle of the room, staring at the door and cocking his head slowly, trying to figure out what to _do_. He's not sure the door will hold out, considering how many of the Dead are rattling against the door, their hungered frenzy knocking at his mind, knocking at that hivemind of his entire being. He whimpers slightly, the best he can with his dry throat, taking a half-step forward before stopping himself, making loose fists with his hands.

Bucky is silent in his head; evidently, he has to decide what to do, even when it's so _hard_ , so hard to stay focused and try and help Steve when urges are rising in waves and motions in his gut, when the only spot of color in the room is the redredred and blueblueblue of Steve's Life. His cocked head turns towards the man, trying to think instead of act blindly in hunger, and-

He has to stop them. They need to go away for both Steve's sake and his own. He raises his arm, sloppily pulls back his fur-lined sleeve and stares at the grey skin, mostly unmarred. It's the right arm, the real one, which means there's _scents_ in there and so he bites a chunk out of his arm, blunt teeth gnashing into the flesh and urging blood to well up. It's black and thick and hardly useable, but it's enough, and he dips metal fingers into the meaty mess and steps towards Steve, grinding his teeth together.

He's not sure Bucky would approve, but it'll make the Dead lose interest. He darts as quick as he can forward, swipes the metal digits down Steve's cheeks and down his jugular, just enough, then steps back, moves closer to the door to maybe mask the entrance as well.

The Dead have never been able to sense the other Dead, and Winter has always found that so ironic, so hopeless that even among their brothers and sisters, they are all alone in their misery and sorrow, in their hunger. They're all Dead and all they want is that Life.

\---

Steve didn't realize his panic was making him lose time until the dead man with him was suddenly _there_ , reaching for him, and Steve couldn't remember when he'd fucking _moved_. His mind _screamed_ at him to get away, but he was locked in place, and he was going to _die_ , he never should've let this thing _in here with him--_

But there's only a touch and then the corpse is headed back to the door. Steve goes from tense to trembling and he doesn't fight it when his knees start to give, he's just too goddamn _confused_.

It takes nearly a minute his mind to turn over and shift back into gear. Things register without _catching--_ the horrible smell, the wetness along his cheek and neck--and Steve sits there dumbly, on the floor, as the pieces fall into place.

The corpse did something. Put something on his face. That's why he was there, that's what the touch was about, though Steve can't fathom what the purpose of it was. He touches his cheek and draws his fingers away to find them coated with something tacky and oil-black. He looks back to the corpse, trying to figure out where the liquid came from, and nearly loses himself to panic again when he realizes _what's on him is Zombie Blood._

Steve makes a strangled sound and starts trying to wipe the shit off his skin. The fuck is it trying to do, make him _turn_? Oh god, OH god he has to get this shit away from his mouth, ohhhh god.

\---

Steve is making non-word sounds and- Oh. He's panicking. He turns, looking at Steve and grinding his teeth together, shaking his head slowly. "No." He rasps out, blinking sluggishly, trying to will his mind into letting more than one word out. "Stop." He can't really dwell on that yet, though, has to turn around and slather the remaining blood on the barricaded door, washing out the room in that black serpentine neutral.

He's pretty certain that _maybe_ his capacity for understanding human emotion is rather... Shot. Because Steve is panicking and frozen in mortal coils when he's trying to _save_ him. Either he's a strange person, or they're all like that. He prods lightly on his chewed arm, satisfied that the leak of black blood is at least _slower_ now, moves back towards Steve and sniffs, inhaling and inhaling and-

It's still there, but he would be mistaken for Dead if not so close up and personal. Which the Dead behind that door _aren't._

\---

 

Steve's able to get most of the gunk off his face and onto his shirt before the dead man tells him to cease and desist. He looks up to him, then, watching as he sets back to work on...putting his blood on the door?

It doesn't click until the banging starts to slow.

There were rumors--urban legends really--about using zombie blood as camouflage. Steve had never met anyone with balls enough to try it, and all the stories about the people who _had_ sounded so made-up and phoney, he couldn't help but be skeptical.

But it seems...it seems like its actually _working_.

The man wanders back over, sniffing at his handiwork, and Steve stares up at him with dazed gratitude. "...Nice," he says, at a loss for anything else.

 

\---

Winter gives a few satisfied, huffing grunts, leaning back a bit to give Steve his space. He's fairly certain he wouldn't want a... a corpse... In his personal bubble. He's not sure, though, and Bucky is curiously absent at the moment, no twitches or patronizing voices to be found. He cocks his head, though, and gives an approximation of pride in the set of his shoulders when the banging and scratching lessens even more, when his own violent urges to snap his teeth in Steve's jugular are almost _gone_. Safe, they're safe now.

\---

 

The longer time stretches on without any immediate threat, the more Steve wilts. He's so _tired,_ is honestly beginning to go numb from it. He starts looking vacant, eyes drooping and unfocused. He pulls one knee closer to prop his cheek against and then doesn't move past breathing. Breathing becomes about all he's really focused on.

The guy's in shock.

\---

 

Steve looks almost as vacant and empty as Winter normally is. He's... Pretty sure that's his cue to help again but... He doesn't... He doesn't know how to help people. There's no wounds other than the scraped ankle, he'd know, he really would, and other than the twist or break, he seems healthy. Well, other than the frail, too-skinny way to his body type.

_Sit next to him. He's not here right now, needs someone to come back to._

Winter twitches in shock, something like relief flooding over him at the return of Bucky's voice. He just- He doesn't know how people work. Logically, he was a person at one point in the past, but he's always been even more subdued, more dazed and faded than most of the Dead, as though humanity had just been a passing phase to him, or else his humanity had been dulled and meaningless as well.

He looks down at Steve and slowly moves his joints and bones and muscles to sit beside him, limbs bumping into Steve's as he listens to the guy's breathing, his only indication at life right now.

 

\---

 

Steve leans away as their limbs brush, his instinct to stay small and innocuous so not to draw any unneeded, unwanted attention. Other than that, he doesn't react. It would take too much energy. Thinking, _reasoning_ , that would be too much work, too. He's tired and he's done and he doesn't _need_ to do anything to ensure his continued existence past letting his body continue to take in and distribute oxygen.

He doesn't know how long it takes, but eventually he reaches that point where he's not nearly so fucking exhausted, he couldn't resurface if he really wanted to. Staying off has always felt so selfish to him, so slowly, very slowly he begins taking stock, coming back into the world.

The presence sitting beside him is the first thing to draw his renewed interest. He regards the zombie with slow, almost lazy sweeps of his eyes. He's sitting next to Steve almost like--

Well, someone used to do this, at any rate. Sit next to him while he was gone, being there for him when he came back so he wasn't tempted to go back under again out of pure loneliness. He's not sure if the guy realizes what it means, or if he's just sitting near because he can.

Either way, he saved his life.

"Thanks," Steve says, voice sounding more strained than before, "for...yeah." He glances away--talking is more taxing than he'd initially bargained for. If he doesn't try, though, he won't be showing the appropriate gratitude. "Y'didn' have to."  

\---

 

While Steve worked through his mental hiccups, Winter had let his presence fade into his head, let himself just drift and fall away into the soft state of Being that is the standard. If a zombie isn't groaning or hunting or shambling around worthlessly, its still and motionless somewhere, all biological functions except the most necessary for Dead Survival gone. Unfocused eyes, unnaturally still body.

But Steve slowly surfaces, and then _speaks_ , and Winter can't help but shake himself big and great, the great lumbering _alive_ beast beneath the cloud of snow in the blizzard. He blinks great and big, twists his face towards Steve, ignoring the clumps of dirty, stringy hair that would be tickling someone with active senses in their cheek.

He doesn't know what to say, knows he needs to respond, and if he doesn't, well maybe Steve will just brain him there and then. After all, he's safe and hidden away- What good would a zombie be to him _now_. But he doesn't _know,_ and then Bucky is whispering in his mind again, telling him what to do and Winter listens.

He bumps lightly closer to Steve, shoulders brushing, and fixes him with a look that says _of course I did_ , and rasps out, "...Punk."

\---

A smile pulls at Steve's lips before he's realized what's caused it, and it dies once he _does,_ because--because _no_. No, that's _impossible._

Steve's face shifts from slack-jawed shock, beginning to crumple inward; wide eyes being pushed into a squint as his brows press in and his mouth closes in a grimace.

He's got the same eyes that all the dead have, but the hair could be right. The build is right. He knows Steve's _name_ , he'd saved Steve's _life,_ its impossible but it does make some semblance of _sense_.

"Bucky?" Its barely a whisper, barely him mouthing the name, he just. He wants it so bad, wants him to _be here_ still so _fucking bad,_ he almost doesn't want to know. Steve is just so afraid of hoping. He couldn't stand it if it weren't true. He can barely stand it, now.

 

\---

 

He's taken aback by the sudden array of emotions flashing across Steve's face, a television textbook of an entire language that Winter no longer knows. And then he's whispering the _name,_ that name of the man he _ate_ , who has been guiding him through his mind _somehow_ , and it's-

He nearly says no. He needs to, should, doesn't really understand the concept of lying in a world made so basic it's unneeded. Starts forming it on his lips, in his brain, but then Bucky's there, hissing _what'd I tell you? You tell him your name is Bucky or he's gonna brain ya. Lookit him, he thinks you're me anyways, just do it. It's not lying, not entirely._

It's such a sudden change in track that he falters, grunts slightly in confusion, leaning closer to Steve in order to focusfocusfocus, nods slowly and kind of wobbly, gasps out a slow "Yes" that barely makes it past his lips. His lie is a crow, clacking it's beak in front of Steve's big blue eyes.

\---

 

Steve staggers up and away from the--his--the man, so he doesn't do something stupid like throw himself into a zombie's arms.

"Yer--h-how's this _possible?"_ he asks. "Yer--yer a--." Saying he's both Bucky and also _dead_ is not something Steve feels capable of. It sticks in his throat. He pushes past it. " _Aren't_ you?"

 

\---

 

Winter tries to gauge Steve's meaning, staring intensely up at Steve's eyes but he can't, and eye contact feels strange to him, so he flicks his gaze around, trying to think up an appropriate response in his limited repertoire. His vocabulary has been a desert lately, waiting for the rain to soak and sprout greens, so it's even more limited than usual, and he blinks up at Steve again, shrugs a bit, gnashes his teeth. "...Dead?" That's what Steve means, yeah, okay, he can work with that.

 

\---

 

"Y'should--should be _gone_ ," Steve says. He doesn't realize it, but his hands have formed fists at his sides. His shoulders are raised and tense. He looks like he's gearing up for a fight, though there's nothing and no one to swing at besides--Besides _Bucky._ "Y'--y'shouldn' even _know_ me anymore! Y'shouldn' be _saving_ me!"

Its not like he doesn't _want_ that, isn't able to see this for the miracle it is, isn't _glad_ that some part of his friend survived when other's clearly didn't.

It's that _this never should've happened in the first place_. Steve never thought he'd get to talk to Bucky again, and of all the things he _could_ say--all the shit he never said but meant to, _wanted_ to, didn't say because he was afraid and wouldn't be able to stand it if coming clean meant putting the good thing they had going in jeopardy--out of _all_ of that, the shit at the forefront of his mind is how fucking _angry_ he is that Bucky got himself offed in the first place.

\---

 

Winter's eyes flick around again because, well... He's not sure how much he _does_ know. Idly- Idly? What Dead does anything idly?- he fingers at the pulpy wound he made on his arm, trying to arrange the flesh into something that won't get worse, something that'll stay stagnant and hopefully maybe even sluggishly heal just a bit if he gets a good meal inside him. He'd really rather not be bleeding everywhere he goes, getting his coat even dirtier.

But his mind does not wander away from Steve. He is focused, and- And that in and of itself is a surprise. Him and his kin are normally dogs, attention wandering ever few moments to some new stimuli, to something more immediate. Or maybe this isn't a surprise. Steve does look- Angry. That's the emotion.

He puffs out his chest slowly gears up for more words than he's... Well, really more than he's ever bothered to try. "Not... Gone. ...Dead." He still crouched over himself on the floor, where Steve was just a moment ago and that finally registers, so he calls on weary muscles to help him up, rather pleased that the left arm is working today. It's touch and go on that limb, often coinciding if he's been eating well lately (He really, really has, if the almost-fresh gore on his face is any indication).

Maybe standing was the wrong idea, though, since he's now taller than Steve, above him. He tries to hunch his shoulders a little, but Steve is still so much _shorter_ than him. He feels it should be the other way around. Steve tall and towering and him- Well, he doesn't have much to contribute, so he just shouldn't look intimidating, plain and simple.

 

\---

 

Steve's hackles rise as the man stands, interpreting it as a challenge, a passive show of dominance only _everyone_ has pulled on Steve in the past. He refuses to back down, even if his fury is misdirected and he's letting himself be swept up in the emotion.

He gives Bucky a shove, saying, "and what good does _that_ do me? Huh?" He glares up at him, jaw tense and eyes livid and growing bright with tears. "You were 'sposed to be _smart_ , Buck! You were--you were 'sposed to _come back_! _Alive_. Not--not as this fucking _mess!_ I can't take you home like _this_ , you _moron,_ what the hell are we gonna _do?"_ His voice cracks, and his armor splinters, lips pressing tight like he can stop them from trembling. "What the hell 'm I 'sposed to _do_?" In an attempt to control the tremors in his voice, he lowers it, lowers the pitch, too, and speaks through his teeth. "What--what was I gonna do if you weren't a fucking freak, huh? If you didn't--if you were _gone_? Really gone? What then? Did you think about that? Did you, or did you just--y-y'know, jus'--."

He can't bring himself to accuse him of just taking it laying down. He knows Bucky would've fought, would've _tried_ , he's such a stubborn bastard. He's such a stubborn bastard, he's given death the finger, crawled out of his grave and found his way back to Steve's side, undead body or no.

Steve's eyes are fluttering, expression tight as he tries to keep the tears back. The figure in front of him is blurry, just blurry enough that Steve's able to convince himself he sees the man he used to know in the corpse. Sees Bucky. He takes hold of his lapel and gives it a limp, frustrated shake. Give him his answers, dammit.

 

\---

 

His dead grey eyes widen as he's pushed, unsteady legs skipping back a few feet, lips twitching downwards. He's- Steve is angry. Angry at him for- Well, no. He's not angry at _Winter_ , he's angry at Bucky. And the remnants of Bucky's soul, whatever spark remaining of him, is silent again, maybe taking in what Steve's saying. Maybe he's relieved that he doesn't have to answer. That he can play dead for real this time around, make Winter do whatever he needs to.

One thing, though, he can't tell Steve he isn't Bucky. It would break this small man's heart, he's pretty sure, and hearts are perilously rare to come by these days.

But. He doesn't have to pretend to remember or understand anything that Steve is saying. After all, all Dead die and lose themselves. The fact that he 'remembers' his 'name' is just extraordinary. Among other things.

He picks himself back up to standing, not wanting his limbs to creak and crack beneath his unsteady gait. His mind is wandering again, he's losing focus and going to that content faraway place because it's so hard to pay attention and-

_Speak, y'bastard. Pretend._

That's all he's getting, he knows. Bucky is nearly mute with shock or emotion or something that Winter can't possibly fathom. Steve is shaking him, two reminders to stay present, to _pretend_ and focus and keep his attention on this small, fiery body in front of him. Or maybe not fiery, maybe he's the water for new growth, the sunlight and rainstorm and _sky_ to stimulate the greens to grow again.

"Sorr... y... " He creaks, forcing _forcing_ words to come out because Steve is about to- to cry, and he doesn't want that. He just lets Steve shake him, move him without his muscles doing the work. Reanimate the corpse. "Don'... remem... ber... lot..."

 

\---

 

Steve lets out a breath, lips twisting in a mirthless smile for just a second before he lets go of Bucky's coat and looks away. He wipes at his eyes and then his nose, sniffs. Composes himself. His voice is tear-thick when he says, "y'shouldn' remember _anything_. You know that, right?"

 

\---

 

Well, Steve isn't wrong there. He nods slowly, gives a little shrug as if in reason. Of course he knows that. He's never remembered any portion of his own life, seemed even more woefully absent from human culture than the other Dead. But he's not actually _remembering._ Just. Being told things. By... Steve's dead friend. Things are strange.

 

\---

 

As anger eases into tired resignation, Steve, well, _gets tired again_. He glances at the barricade, figures out which chair will be the easiest to dislodge and crosses to it. A few yanks later, he's jenga'd a office chair free and sets it down facing his undead companion. This'll be a lot easier on his back than sitting around on the floor.

Steve sits and gives the zombie a once over. He tries to see Bucky under all the filth and perma-rotting skin, but its not as easy as before. His eyes are clear and so very apt at cataloguing details that after a moment, he starts noticing discrepancies. The line of the jaw, for example. The bridge of the nose. That doesn't make _sense_ though, so he looks away, shakes his head. "What 'm I gonna do with you? Y've got a kindergarden vocabulary an' can maybe reason about as well as a dog, yer gonna be _such_ shit company." Steve tries to drag his bangs into place, then lingers to finger comb through the rest of his tangled hair. His attention isn't on Bucky anymore, its on the floor and he's half talking to himself, anyways. "An' how long before you stop...being civil? Are you gonna keep needing people to eat? Are you gonna snap and try t'eat me?" What would Steve do if he _did_? Would he brain Bucky to save himself? No. No, no, he wouldn't. He'd figure out some way for them both to survive or...maybe he'd let himself get eaten, he doesn't know.

 

\---

 

Winter makes an immediate sound of protest, a near-whimper, leaning down closer to Steve and shaking his head severely, a bit jerky kind of, but still. Very obvious head shaking. No, no he won't eat Steve. He- He doesn't know how he's going to eat when he's hitched to Steve, doesn't know when or how he's going to sustain himself under such judging eyes and such a judgmental consciousness inside him. "...No..."

 

\---

 

"Okay," Steve says, voice gentle. Then again, "okay," as he puts a hand on Bucky's arm and squeezes, though. Though it doesn't _feel_ quite right. Not stiff like dead tissue but stiff like _metal_.

Steve takes Bucky's hand--the left one--and pulls the sleeve of his coat up and back to inspect this oddity further.

 

\---

 

Winter makes another noise at the sudden contact,  the nonviolent contact, at a loss of how to react. Why's he pulling up on his slee- oh. Oh right. The non-flesh hand. The one with no blood to dry, no flesh to rot.

That's- he's pretty sure Bucky would have had two flesh arms. That Steve's friend did not have metal up until his shoulder. But it's not like he could dart away quick enough for Steve to not see, can't stumble back enough,  so he just drops his body down, sitting on the floor beneath Steve, arm still held out in front of him.

 

\---

...yeah, no, _Bucky would have had two flesh arms_.

Steve stares wide-eyed, finger tracing one of the grooves set just above the man's wrist. The arm is heavy and Steve has to hold it up with both hands but he's _not_ letting go, not until he gets answers. He looks between the zombie, his metal arm and back again before saying, "how did you get this? What happened--who gave this--who _put this_ on you?"

 

\---

 

Steve is frightened and freaked out, and- Winter has no answers. He shrugs slowly, wants to say that he woke up like that, doesn't know if it was already _there_ or put there at some point, but he can't. He doesn't have the words for that kind of diction. Honestly, he's not sure he ever _has_ had the diction for that. Bucky knows much more words than he does, while oftentimes his own are perilously proper and basic.

_Aw, fuck. A metal arm. How didn' I know about that?_

Winter doesn't tell Bucky that the limb wasn't working the day he killed him. That his approach was one handed, the metal digits hanging limply by his side. By contrast, every time Steve moves the limb, it gives a strong hum, a whirr, so painfully alive compared to his dull and meaningless gaze.

 

\---

 

" _Think_ ," Steve insists. Someone had to've put this on him in the last week--maybe they were the one who brought some of Bucky back to the forefront. Was there a mad scientist somewhere in lower Manhattan? "Look, did you--do you remember eating a doctor or something? You didn't used to have this."

 

\---

 

Winter flicks his eyes all over, seriously does try to think, because it's been a curiosity to himself for so long, and- Doctor. Doctor? That makes sense. It feels like something sliding into place, but he's still so unsure. "Doc... tor." He nods, more to the fact that a doctor was involved, yes. Whether or not he _ate_ said doctor is a mystery. He wriggles the digits slightly, much more mobile and normal-looking in mobility than the rest of his body.

 

\---

 

Steve watches him, waiting for more, but no, two syllables seems to be his lot. He sighs and sits back, letting their hands--his in Bucky's--drop to his knee. "This is going great," Steve mutters.

\---

 

He lets his hand just flop wherever it feels like going, looking up at Steve with wide, confused eyes. "Sorry." He rushes it out into one syllable, breathy and insistent, but he's _trying_ , he promises he really really is. It's just all so tangled up in his brain, millions of fibre-thin strings running over each other and tangling up. Maybe that's why String Theory was always so difficult to understand. It's all tangled up in the head, the world, their surroundings full of less than microscopic _chaos,_ building up and up into the physical world until it looks perfect, clear, but is just one confusing mess, all intermingled and connected.

_You're a melodramatic fucker. Fuckin' universal laws? He's just looking at your stupid, stupid limb. Shoulda cut it off._

Winter slowly draws his hand back to his side, ignoring Bucky in favor of staying out of his head, in favor of looking at Steve. At his emotional- though he'd rather they not be, Winter knows- blue eyes. They're very pretty, so full of color and life the kind that Winter could never ever hope to ever accomplish. Fine, he won't be melodramatic. That, that's- He's tangled up in blue, there. Bob Dylan.

_Oh my god, you're a moron on top of things. A geeky moron. Go back to the melodramatic pessimistic shit pile._

\---

 

"'s...'s okay," Steve says, voice low and quiet, while he ducks the zombie's gaze. It's fucking unnerving, is what it is. Nevermind the fact Steve's just not used to people staring at him, its those _eyes_.

It ain't safe, being close enough to a zombie to see the gray of its goddamn eyes. From a distance, the eyes just look white, with a pinprick of black swimming in the center. It was common knowledge that if you're close enough to where the gray is clear and distinct, you're officially too damn close. You can pretty much kiss your ass goodbye, because either that zombie is gonna eat you, or you're gonna brain it while well within splattering range. Zombie fluids are just as deadly as bites; you get their blood in your mouth or eyes, you turn.

Being close is _dangerous_ , and while he trusts Bucky, those new eyes of his still sent trickles of panic down Steve's spine. He's too close, right now. Far too close, and he's stupid for wanting to be closer.

He'd just...he'd missed him _so_ much.

Steve works his jaw, trying to decide what to do. Just how suicidal does he feel like being? Does he honestly want to risk putting his hands near a dead man's mouth? He considers each, stained with Bucky's blood which has started drying into clumps around the hairs on the back of his palms. Steve glances back to the corpse, his _friend_ , his--fuck, the guy he _loves_. He could admit that now, he should, it's only _right_. Steve looks at the guy he loves and he tries looking past the eyes and the gore and the dirty hair to _see Bucky_ , and he just--

He goes for it. Gently, slowly, he pushes the stringy bangs away from his face, his finger just ghosting over his forehead, until he's dragging his nails back over his temple and ducking the whole mess behind one ear. As he does this, he says, "Dunno what I'm gonna do without your stupid chatter. Dunno what you expected me to do without you, really."

 

\---

 

Winter stares up at him with wide eyes, quelling down any and all instincts that want Steve to lean closer so he can bite down and tear. No, he ignores all the but one, the one that tells him to lean into the touch, touch-starved and distant as he is. He gives a surprised grunt at the scratching along his scalp, fits his eyes closed for a second and just feels Steve all around him.  His Life scent is so strong right now, it's like Winter is sharing it with him, cloying into his presence.

Steve is talking to him. He flits his eyes open again, eerie gray looking at the small man as he talks. Winter always looks so dispassionate, so disinterested, but it's not true, it really isn't. He's just behind a veil that hides him from the real world,  and he's fairly certain it's always been like that, even Before.

"Live." He murmurs, not daring to budge another inch for fear that Steve's glorious, amazing hands will leave him, Jesus to the disciple. He is, afterall,  kneeling in front of him.

Bucky may not have told him that one,  but he can infer. Steve is obviously important within himself, so it makes sense that Bucky wanted him to thrive without him.

"Thrive." He pushes out,  and isn't that a weird concept these days?

 

\---

 

Steve's expression pinches, because of course he'd say that. "How was I gonna do that without you, Buck?" Moron, why do you think he was outside the wall in the first place. There's no future for him. There never has been, not really. It's just a matter of time before his body up and quits on him, now that the world is fucked and supplies are limited. Fuck, Bucky, he was never meant to outlive you.

 

\---

 

Winter doesn't know. As much as he's pretending, trying, he's still just a blind man, doesn't know Steve at all. He knows he's terribly stubborn and now- now he's thinking that Steve maybe doesn't want to live as much as he should.

He leans forward a little closer, ever closer to Steve. It's all slow race, from him chasing after him by the cars, and the race has slowed to a few inches at a time now.  No longer chasing, just staying.

He shrugs, doesn't know the words to express himself. Doesn't think any words in any language could explain himself or the inexplicable way he's drawn to Steve.

\---

 

"Don't shrug at me," Steve mumbles. There's no heat to it, its just something to say. He drags his thumb over the curve of his forehead, an almost reverent motion, then moves to push the other side of bangs out of his face. "'m saying I can't live without you, y'jerk."

\---

 

Winter stares up at him, barely daring to breathe out an unneeded breath at the way Steve is looking at hi-

No. He's not looking at Winter, though. Not talking to or about him. He's talking to Bucky, talking to the man that Winter /ate/ and that's so fucked up, but so very very applicable to the natural order of things that Winter doesn't know what to do.

Despite the turmoil of thoughts,  he leans into his touch, hums out as much as he can from his dried throat. "Can." He rasps, because Steve is the embodiment of Life, all full of light and beauty, of red, and Bucky's not here anymore.  He's been surviving for almost two weeks without Bucky,  still thriving.

 

\---

 

Steve gently holds his face and resists the urge to be a stubborn asshole about this. He doesn't hold out for very long. "Not without you," he says. "Haven't reached the end of the line yet." Steve bites the inside of his lip, trying to tamp down his emotions. He strokes the man's hair with his dirty finger tips. "'m jus' glad you--, y-y'know came back."

\---

 

His eyes alternate between drinking Steve in and closing his eyes in bliss. Comfort is not something he is used to. It's one of those things that's not familiar in even the most tangible of memories,  like most other things. Maybe he never really got touched so softly, like he was something to be cherished.

Another hum bridges it's way from his throat, not wanting to say 'yes' because that would be lying and he hates, he hates lying to Steve. Can't stand it. "Here... Now."

He's practically leaned against Steve's legs now, limp and pliant beneath his expert fingers.

 

\---

 

There's not much of Bucky left, but Steve likes to think whatever _is_ there, that's what's brought him so close, has him looking almost...content. Steve takes in a slow breath and raises his other hand, begins finger combing with both, gently loosening the tangles and massaging his scalp. This half-life he's stuck in, especially with a _conscience_ present, it must be miserable. He suspects it'd be a lot easier to just give in and act like every other zombie out there. He can't let Buck do that. He has to give him reason to stay.

"Guess you are," he says. "An' you're gonna need my help, now more than ever. Lookit you--we're gonna have to find some running water. This shit all over your face is disgusting. You've really let yourself go, Buck. If the girls at home could see you now."

 

\---

 

Winter practically moans when's he's being massaged, drinking in everything he can ay the moment.  He paws weakly at his face,  at the dry blood and gristle dotting at his lower face, clumped and frankly nasty now that he's thinking about it. He's never really thought about his physical appearance, deciding it was an irrelevance that didn't need to be thought about.

Dully, he realizes this mess on his face is probably mostly Bucky.

Okay, so he probably looks like a disgusting monster. Bath is probably good, and it means that Steve will have to wash him. He doesn't understand most of what Steve says, but cleaning up he gets. He looks up at the man, blinking.  "Yes."

 

\---

"Yes," Steve echoes, voice wavering only slightly. It's just--that noise. That noise sounds so close to, so like the noise he heard behind him as he ran, not thirty minutes ago. He knows it's not like that. He knows he should have nothing to fear, so he swallows the rising panic. He swallows it down and he wonder just how different Bucky is from the rest of the dead. How many of them would be this hungry for contact, gentle and kind. If Bucky is an anomaly or a minority.

"I'll take care a'you, Buck. I promise."

 

\---

 

Winter gives him big grateful eyes, and effect that would look adorable except for the- well the dead gaze and the blood. He's so /focused/ right now, and isn't that wonderful? The look he's giving Steve js full of gratitude, because he really doesn't think he'd be able to say thank you at the moment.

He draws the sleeves of his coat lower on his arms, hiding the metal one and hiding the bite wound on his other arm, gaze never wavering.

 

\---

 

"Christ," Steve breathes. "Don't lookit me like that; I already wanna kiss you. I just don't wanna turn. We'd both be fucked, then."

 

\---

 

Winter feels himself go warm. Not literally,  he can't anymore, but mentally his thoughts blanket out, skyrocket. Fireworks. No one has ever- should ever- he's at a loss.

_Don't be kissing him until you don't got me all over you're damned mouth, corpse._

Winter straightens slightly, tried not to get lost in his head for more than a few seconds- he knows he's lost focus for at least a big because it takes effort to sharpen his gaze on Steve again, twitch his lips. "Bad." He breathes out, because he wants Steve to stay living, Alive, it's so so important.

 

\---

 

Bucky really seemed taken with the idea for a second there. More than Steve'd expected. And there's no way he faked that. No way he was bullshitting for Steve's prides sake. Deaths made an honest man outta him, and Steve doesn't know quite what to think.

The only solid truth he can home onto is the gore across his mouth and chin is fucking horrendous and Steve wants to stay the fuck away from that. He's no intention of getting his hands near that mouth until he's good and ready to scrub it clean.

"No kidding," Steve says. "The water should still be on in the places near the wall. We should get to that. Y'know, before the sun sets."

 

\---

 

Winter blinks slowly,  grunts as he gets his muscles working to stand himself up, shoulders slumped in their default position. His eyes drift around the room, the sudden vertigo from forcing his way up losing him momentarily,  his body swaying in that dandelion drift that many of the Dead do.

 

\---

 

Steve rises and reaches out to steady him instinctively, because were he to think about it he'd realize just how useless his help would be. It doesn't hit him until Bucky starts swaying forward, towards him, and Steve is struck with the mental image of Bucky falling forward and flattening him against the floor with his weight. "Christ, please don't fall."

 

\---

 

His eyes flickdown to Steve, and he wills his body to stop, to listen to his thoughts for once. God please. He huffs out a breath,  grunts slightly and steadies himself, fingers clawing absentmindedly at his side. "...Trying..."

 

\---

 

Steve braces himself then steps away, nudging the office chair back out of his way in the process. "Easy. Okay, I. Think you're good."

He turns to look to the barricade, since it seems like the next logical place to start. Only...that is a whole lot of crap, and his shoulders ache just thinking about having to take it apart. He knows once he starts, it'll be quick work, it's just...

He looks back to Bucky, and immediately latches on reason to stall. "Should I put more of your blood on me before we go out there?" he asks, and. Isn't that a weird-ass question. Only in the zombie apocalypse...

\---

 

Winter takes a while to process that, but his eyes eventually wander over to the barricade, flicking back to Steve and the small amount of blood on his face. It's- Well, there's not too much precedence, but he can smell Steve. His Life scent is already so strong that his blood lessened it only a bit. So. Yeah.

He grunts,  slowly draws back his right sleeve, and digs his teeth into the meaty wound, gnashing his teeth so it actually bleeds and wrings out like an orange. Black blood oozes thickly,  and he dips his metal fingers into it, leaning forward to paint across Steve's face and neck, steering as clear from his mouth and nose as his clumsy fingers can.

 

\---

 

Steve watches Bucky gnaw at himself, feeling this odd mixture of disgust, morbid curiosity and...well not _shame_ , just an understanding that maybe this isn't for him to _see_. He just can't bring himself to look away.

Ever since things went to shit, Steve just. He makes himself watch anything and everything horrible around him. He doesn't know why, it just. Looking away feels like denial, and he can't deny how fucked the world is, not if he wants to survive it. He has to make sure he's prepared. It's a sick kind of courage. He needs it; it helps him keep going.

Of course there's also the guilt that Buck's having to mutilate himself for Steve's sake. Its ass backwards, really. Steve's the one who should be on the business end of those teeth, but Buck's taking them to himself, so he can ensure Steve's safety. He's always been such a fucking martyr. If he had something to give, he gave it, especially to Steve. Steve's never deserved it, not once, not even now.

"...does it hurt?" he asks, as the metal fingers start coating his cheek and neck with blood. Steve turns, not pulling away, just encouraging Bucky to smear the stuff on the back of his neck. God does it smell awful. Steve swallows, tamping down on his own gag reflex.

 

\---

 

Winter shakes his head slowly, drawing from the leaking tap of blood in his arm to slather Steve's face with more. No. It doesn't hurt exactly. His body is mostly numb and unfeeling, a veil that keeps him trapped, so even if there are pinpricks of feeling dancing to his his deadened brain, it's not exactly pain. Or if It is, Winter can't tell the difference.

He thinks he could now, with Steve's light touches earlier, the ministrations good and welcome.

Some aborted mental block tells him to  ignore touches,  that they don't matter and shouldn't interfere, and it's not Bucky's voice. He shakes it away with another head shake, finishes spreading goopy blood across his neck.

"...not... much there."

 

\---

 

"Huh," Steve says. He's wondering if that's. If that's normal, if that could change. If there's any future for the dead or if Buck's stuck like this, shut off from himself and the world around him. If he was pushing into Steve's hands because he could feel them, or because he _couldn't_.

"...y'think that'll ever..." Steve turns, forces himself to look into his face, into his unnaturally pale eyes. "Y'think you could get better? Have you been like this? Since you--since you turned? Been able to remember and. And think, and--and Jesus, _reason_." He honestly hopes not. He hopes this is new, that. That something--maybe seeing Steve, maybe something else like that, that maybe-doctor, he doesn't know--sparked something in Buck that brought him back. Because that would mean there's somewhere to go from here. That maybe he can help Buck get even better.

It'd also mean that Bucky wasn't _stranded_ out here for close to two weeks, alone and aware and--Christ, if Steve hadn't come out here--

 

\---

 

Winter whines deep in his throat at all the questions, trying to categorize their important. He won't- He doesn't know how to answer them all with his less-than-stunning language ability. He flicks his eyes around subconsciously, trying to goddamn think about it, eventually gritting out, "New." Being able to even feel outside of the hunt is brand new. Sure, his arm is still numb from any feeling and pain, but he _felt_ the soft touches, leaned into them automatically. That's new. He hasn't been able to feel that, _ever_.

He looks back at Steve, trying to keep his gaze level with his. "Better."

 

\---

 

"Good," Steve breathes, "good." He's almost dizzy with relief--not just from the answer, but that he got an answer at _all_. That whine he'd made, it'd been _pitiful_. Steve's never been type to coddle but he's honestly having to tamp down the urge to start, right now. He takes the lapel of Bucky's coat and meets his eyes, holds it and them as he decides what he's gonna do.

Maybe coddling is what Bucky needs right now...but maybe what he'd _want_ is to be treated like _himself_. Treated the same as always, like he's a person. Like he's Steve's _friend_. Like he's the guy Steve's known the longest, loved the longest. Steve doesn't know. He doesn't, he doesn't, this is all new, horrifyingly new territory they've started barreling into blind, and all Steve can do is his best. He has to decide. He can't waver. He can't hem and haw over his decisions, he has to make them and move forward. That's always meant following his gut.

His gut says this is Bucky. He should be treated as _Bucky_.

Steve's expression tightens into something like feigned exasperation. He gives the coat a little tug. "Was that so hard? I'm gonna keep askin' you questions, Buck, try not to make a fuss every time, huh?"

 

\---

 

It's like a one-eighty, this behavior and it makes Winter's head spin for a moment, eyes tracking across Steve in confusion. Of course it was difficult, words aren't supposed to come out of the mouths of the Dead. But-

_He's gonna talk to you like that all the time, pal. It's how he works. Get used to it._

He swallows down the groan that wants to leave his mouth in his own level of exasperation, looking at Steve for a moment longer. He's trying to be funny. To be amusing and Winter would smile if he could. What he does do, though, is snap his teeth, like a petulant puppy, dead eyes crinkling in something like happiness. No one treats him like he's actually _there._ Even Before. He's sure of it. No one talks to him and lets him respond, he's just furniture in a room, albeit very, very dangerous furniture.


End file.
